
DOBELL COLLECTION 



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POEMS: 



CHIEFLY DEVOTIONAL 



BY THE LATE 



MISS ELIZA WHITFIELD SANDERS. 



" Who, being dead, yet speaketh." 



PRINTED FOR PRIVATE CIRCULATION. 




> > > 
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HontJon : 

MAURICE & CO., FENCHURCH STREET. 

1850. 







205449 
'13 






INTEODUCTION. 



It is not intended to claim for this little work an 
exalted rank in poetic composition. Its contents 
are presented as the simple, spontaneous, and un- 
prompted effusions of the pure mind of a young 
child, who occasionally employed her leisure in 
writing the verses now collected ; and it will at 
once be seen that matured talent could have had 
no share in their production, when it is remembered 
that the earliest piece was written when she was 
little more than eight years of age, and that before 
she attained her fifteenth year she was called on 
to resign her pure spirit into the hands of that 
Creator who had been pleased to endue her with 
talents, which, if her life had been prolonged, 
promised to be of no common order. 



4 INTRODUCTION. 

Her parents have, however, felt it to be a duty 
they owe to the cherished memory of their dear 
child, to collect these efforts of her pious mind, 
and, by Printing, to put them into a more en- 
during form than that of her own MSS., although 
she could have had no idea or hope that they 
would ever have been seen beyond the circle of 
her own family. 

The subjects she has chosen appear to have 
been chiefly of a devotional character, and it may 
be interesting to state that her short career was 
strictly conformable with the sentiments she has 
embodied in these Poems. In person fair, in 
disposition modest and retiring, she had endeared 
herself to all who were acquainted with her. The 
patience and resignation with which she suffered 
the terrible pains of a protracted illness, and her 
affectionate solicitude for the happiness of all her 
connexions, were most exemplary. And when, 
on Sunday, the 22nd of November, 1846, she was 
summoned to quit all which she held dear on earth, 



INTRODUCTION. O 

it was the sure and certain hope of those relatives 
by whom she was so much beloved, that this 
summons called her to the immediate presence of 
that Saviour to whom she had long looked up, 
and to whom she had expressed, in almost the 
last words she uttered, — her love. 

" Song, Beauty, Youth, Love, Yirtue, Joy, — this group 

" Of bright ideas, flowers of Paradise 

" As yet unforfeit, in one blaze we bind, 

" Kneel, and present it to the skies, as all 

" We guess of Heaven, — and these were all her own." 




IP <§ 



A EEQUEST. 



Motheb, let it be my tomb 
Where violets and snowdrops bloom, 
Where the cowslip spreads its gold, 
Where roses bright their tints unfold. 
With everything around her smiling, 
That is the place, oh! lay your child in. 

Let no marble monument, 

But let the flowers by Heaven sent, — 

Let these flowers adorn my grave, 

They 're not what man, but Heaven gave,- 

Heaven, whose meanest gifts outshine 

The richest treasures of the mine. 



This was written when the Authoress was little more than 
eight years of age, and is believed to be her earliest poetical 
effort. 



8 



POEMS. 



"BLESSED AEE THE DEAD THAT DIE 

IN THE LORD." 



Yea, blessed, thrice blessed are they 

Who, dying, rely on the Lord ; 
Who, when they are called away, 

Can place their whole trust in His Word. 

They who when their last hour draweth near, 
Find all peace and all quiet within ; 

At rest is each sorrow and fear, 
And past every struggle of sin. 

Oh ! a blessing belongs unto those 

Which the whole world can never afford ; 

The blessing of quiet and peace, 
Which is given alone by the Lord. 

To them Death exhibits no sting, 
The grave can no triumph obtain, 

The soul seems to long to take wing, 
And to burst through Mortality's chain. 



POEMS. 9 

Yes ! blessed, thrice blessed are they 

Who can meet death with feelings like these, 

Who, when they are called away, 

Feel nought but calm quiet and peace. 



WHAT IS JOY? 



What is Joy ? A glittering bubble 
For this world too fair and light ; 

Soon it fails, for sin and trouble 
Cloud its hues so fair and bright. 

What is Joy? A fleeting vapour ! 

Few can grasp it for an hour. 
Like the flame of feeble taper 

Quenched by the passing shower. 

What is Joy ? A blissful feeling 
Mortals fondly think their own, 

Till dark sorrow stern revealing, 
Its fleeting nature then is shown. 



10 



POEMS. 

What is Joy ? A guest of Heaven ! 

Seldom dwells it long on Earth ; 
It mixes not with sin's dark leaven, 

But flies to Heaven which gave it birth. 

Mortals, if true Joy you'd taste, 
Seek it humbly, seek it there ! 

Here your time no longer waste, 
Seek it of the Lord with prayer. 



SPEING FLOWEBS. 



The sweet spring flowers, the sweet spring flowers, 

'Tis pity they so soon should fade ; 
They flourish for a few short hours, 

Then on the earth are with'ring laid. 

The garden's pride, the queenly rose, 
Spreads its sweet fragrance all around, 

The breeze amongst its branches blows, 
Its tinted leaves bestrew the ground. 



POEMS. 11 

The lily, with its modest head 

Deep hidden from the blaze of day, 

Plucked or uprooted from its bed, 
How soon it droops and fades away. 

The violet, whose sweet perfume 

Reveals it to the passers by ; 
It blooms and blushes strong at noon, 

But ere the evening it will die. 

'Tis thus with all our earthly joy ! 

We weave our plans so gay and bright ; 
We fancy bliss without alloy, 

And all seems brilliant to our sight. 

But soon, alas ! the blast hath blown, 
Our fancied pleasures, where are they ? 

We find, too late, all wither'd, flown, 
That, like the flowers, they fade away. 

Then fix your every hope above, 
Let all your joys in Heaven be laid; 

There flourish, twined with heavenly love, 
Bright joys and flowers which never fade. 



12 POEMS. 



EAELY DEATH. 



I seem so young to die, dear friends, 

I seem so young to die, 
I cannot leave Earth's transient scenes. 

Leave all, without a sigh. 

I had looked forth for many a year 

Of happiness and bliss, 
But now my end approaches near, 

And my last hour is this. 

Yet why should I repine and sigh 
Because my death draws near ; 

My soul, that soul which will not die, 
Mounts to a happier sphere. 

For me Christ died upon the Cross, 
For me each wound did bleed, 

All earthly gains are now but loss, 
But this is bliss indeed. 



POEMS. 13 



All now farewell, and each dear friend 
Whom I have loved below, 

May Heaven bless, and at the end 
Each feel the bliss I know. 

My breath departs, I cannot stay, 

I feel I now must die ; 
My soul will heavenward wing its way, 

Good bye, dear friends, good bye. 



ON BEING DETAINED FROM CHURCH 

BY SICKNESS. 



The day is come, the Sabbath-day, 

Lord, I may not repair 
Unto Thine House to learn Thy way, 

To bend my knee in prayer. 

Sickness detains me from the place 

Where I desire to be ; 
But, Lord, look on me in Thy grace, 

Forgive and pardon me. 



14 POEMS. 

And let the prayer within my heart 

To Thee appear the same, 
As if with others I took part 
To praise and bless Thy name. 

And if, Lord, it be Thy will 
I languish still in pain, 

With patience let me bear each ill, 
Nor trust in Thee in vain. 



THE LAST BORN. 

'Tis evening ; and the moon, swift sailing on 

Through clouds of heavenly blue, is casting lustre 

With equal brilliance on the cottage wall, 

As on the splendid palace of the great ; 

Timidly stealing through the silent grove 

Where leafy branches intercept its rays, 

And shining on the calm and tranquil sea 

It casts its light into a lowly room, 

Where kneels a mother by the stiffened corse 

Of this, her last dear child. 

It is the last of three, and she a widow ! 



POEMS. 15 

(Can we then blame her grief?) 
The burning tears uninterrupted flow 
Down her pale cheek, 

And fall upon its brow so fair, so innocent. 
It was her all, it was her only treasure, 
And now it is no more ; she is indeed alone ! 
How will she miss it? — miss its lisping tones, 
Its fond embrace, its joyous ringing laugh ? 
All, all are past away ! Sad thoughts like these 
Fill up above the brim her cup of anguish. 
Convulsive sobs deep echo through the room, 
And with a troubled voice, oft interrupted 
By choking grief, the mother thus began : — 



" Oh leave me not, my darling, leave me not, 
I cannot bear that thou shouldst go from me. 

Thou must not, oh thou shalt not, leave the spot ! 
I cannot, oh I cannot part with thee. 

" Thou wert my only pride, my only joy, 
Thy father, brother, sister, all are gone, 

And must I part with thee, my darling boy ? — 
Must I be left alone to die forlorn ? 



16 



POEMS. 



" Sure this must be a dream, an awful dream ! 

I shall, I must awake, and find it so, — 
A vision of the night, an awful scene, 

A feeling which 'tis agony to know. 

" Alas! alas! 'tis true: my child is dead ! 

I never more shall hear his merry voice ; 
He soon shall lay within the grave's cold bed ; 

His spirit with the saints in Heaven rejoice. 

" He will ascend to Heaven, and there will meet 
His gentle brother, his sweet sister mild, 
His father's lips his welcome will repeat, 

And angels fair will commune with my child ! 

u And could I wish to keep him from such joy ? 
A joy which I myself soon hope to share ! 
Thy mother soon will join thee there, my boy, 
To meet her husband and her children fair." 



She ceased, — and tho' deep anguish on her brow 
Had set its mark, yet was her sorrow temper'd 
With holy resignation to that power 
Which gave, and in that hour had ta'en away. 



POEMS. 17 

The child was buried. Near its little grave, 
A female form was seen o'ercome with grief; 

Alas ! she did not long our pity crave, 
But found in death, oblivion and relief. 



THE WIDOW OF NAIN. 



'Ti$ morning, and the sun with glittering rays 
Bathes the surrounding scene in golden light, 

The dewy nights, and those fine cloudless days, 
Paint the fair landscape with each hue so bright. 

The scene is near unto a city small ; 

Its name is Nain. We'll here no longer wait, 
Let us repair unto that city wall — 

Stay ! what is this which issues from the gate ? 

Ah, closer look, it is a funeral train ! 

See you not now the corse stretched on the bier. 
That mourner's cheerless grief 't were hard to blame. 

A widow, and her only child lies here. 



18 POEMS. 

With downcast head, and footsteps following slow, 
Convulsive choking sobs, not loud but deep, 

E'en the relief of tears she cannot know ; 
Her burning eyeballs now refuse to weep. 

Winding along the road, see yonder train ; 

Towards the city see them slow advance. 
One in the midst, tho' robed in garments plain, 

Has majesty and love in every glance. 

It is the Saviour ! He with pity hears 

The mother's tale ; his heart is touched with grief; 
He stops the bier: poor Mourner, dry thy tears, 

Know, He who speaks can give thy heart relief. 

Yes, hark ! he speaks the kind consoling words, 
" Weep not ! " How kind, how merciful his tone ! 

With humble steadfast faith the mother heard ; 
For none can aid her save the Lord alone. 

He turns around before the wondering crowd, 
His steadfast gaze he fixes on the bier, 

With calm majestic voice he cries aloud : 

"Young Man, arise ! " and that dead man shall hear. 



POEMS. 19 

* 

Yea, it is true ! his eyelids slow unclose, 
The colour mounts into his pallid face, 

Through his seal'd veins once more the life-blood flows 
He lives, a monument of Heaven's grace. 

But who could paint the mother's frantic joy ? 

Oh, who could paint her fervent gratitude ? 
Her bliss seemed perfect and without alloy, 

As she embraced her son, who wondering stood. 

And what deep awe had seized the standers by ! 

At once with one accord to Heaven they cried : 
" This is the prophet sent from the Most High ; 

The Lord his people now has glorified ! " 



20 POEMS. 



PEKFECT HAPPINESS. 



Oh, where is happiness to be found ? 
Deep in the grave — far under ground, 
Away from every fear and care ; 
Is perfect happiness found there ? 

Is it in the calm of the hermit's cell ? 
Far — far away in some old leafy dell, 
Away from the world's vain hope and care ; 
Is perfect happiness found there ? 

Is it in the buz of the crowded room ? 
With dance, and with song, and with sweet 

perfume, 
Surrounded by groups of the young and the fair ; 
Is perfect happiness found there? 

Is it in the calm of a social home ? 
Surrounded by those whom we love, our own, 
Where affection blooms in its form so fair ; 
Is perfect happiness found there ? 



POEMS. 21 

Altho' in the grave we are free from care, 
Neither hope nor bright joy can find entrance 

there ; 
Both, both are excluded from death's stern lair, 
And perfect happiness is not there. 

There is gloom in the calm of the hermit's cell, 
He feeleth a void which he cares not to tell ; 
He proffers in vain each penance and prayer ; 
He seldom can find perfect happiness there. 

And how oft in the midst of the glittering ball 

There seemeth a void, unfilled by all ; 

If ever so young, or if ever so fair, 

You never will find perfect happiness there. 

And e'en in the midst of our social home 
There's a feeling of blight, and sorrow to come 
On hearts elate and affections fair ; 
Alas ! perfect happiness is not there. 

Then for perfect happiness search not on Earth ; 
You may find it assumed under colour of mirth ; 
But alas ! it is hollow, and soon laid bare, 
And you never will find perfect happiness there. 



22 POEMS. 

For sweet happiness, then, oh look above 
To the Heaven of joy, to the Heaven of love ; 
There no grief or remorse will the bosom tear, 
And you surely will find perfect happiness there. 



"FAKEWELL TO THE NOKTH." 



( Written after a visit to her Grandmother in the North of England.) 



Farewell to the North, my visit is o'er! 
My visit long looked for is now no more ! 
Farewell to my friends who have to me been so kind, 
The remembrance of them will ne'er fade from my 

mind. 
'Tis in vain to disguise it, the tear will gush forth, 
When I think that I'm bidding farewell to the North. 

When at home I my head on my pillow shall lay, 
My thoughts will be stealing to the friends far away, 
And the thought will intrude, and intruding, give pain, 
That we who have parted may ne'er meet again. 
And while thinking thus sadly a tear will gush forth, 
For I deem it's my final farewell to the North. 



POEMS. 23 



THE MAETYB. 



It is indeed a fair and lovely day, 

And let us stop to gaze upon the throng ; 

What is it that so many tempts this way, 

That thus with one accord they move along ? 

Perchance there is some royal sport to-day, 
Or festive feast$ or show, at Mary's court ; 

Perchance before her will her actors play, 

With song and dance, to give her subjects sport. 

And yet, methinks, to gaze upon that crowd, 
They seem in humour not for dance or song; 

Some, threats of vengeance mutter, deep and loud, 
And some with sorrow slowlv move along. 

And now they're come unto an open space ; 

Faggots are scattered round : what can it be ? 
See eagerness depicted in each face ; 

We soon shall know the sight they're come to see. 



24 POEMS. 

And now advancing, see, from yonder side, 
A band of soldiers, with their prisoner, there ; 

Him they with cruel jests and jeers deride, 
Spite of his flowing beard and silver hair. 

He fixes on the crowd a glance of love, 

Then seems as though he nought on earth can see ; 
His thoughts, his every glance seem fixed above — 

Are fix'd on Heaven, where he so soon shall be. 

And now they've tightly bound him to a stake, 
Have bound his feeble form with savage ire ; 

Does not the spirit of the Martyr quake? 
For 'tis a fearful death to die — by fire. 

But all is ready : " Soldier bring a light ! " 
When on one side the crowd away doth give, 

One forward comes, and holds before his sight 
A scroll, on which is written, " Sign, and live ! " 

The Martyr takes it calmly, reads it through, 
Then quietly returns to him who gave, 

And meekly says, "This deed I could not do, 
E'en if I had a hundred lives to save. 



POEMS. 25 

" What! barter for my life the sacred truth ? 

I could not thus disgrace my Saviour's name 
E'en were I in the hopeful priae of youth : 

No ! let my body perish in the flame." 

" Stop — stop his mouth, he shall not speak, I say, 
Pile up the faggots, let his pain begin ; 

These heretics, increasing ev'ry day, 

Soon o'er the Romish Church will victory win.' 

The flame ascended. With delighted eye, 

Bonner his victim watched, wreathed in the fire ; 

'Midst that vast crowd scarcely a cheek was dry, 
To think so good a man must thus expire. 

And now they hear his voice forth from the flames : 
"Father, forgive ! They know not what they do." 

The people listen — he may speak again — 
The Martyr's holy face with fear they view. 

He spoke again (Bonner with triumph heard 

His faint low voice) : " Receive my spirit, Lord ! ' 

His spirit had departed with that word — 

His soul had fled to Heaven to meet its God. 



o 



6 POEMS. 



There he hath found, with joy, the ransom'd throng ; 

His pains, his troubles, and his torments o'er, 
He sings before the Lamb the mystic song ; 

He ne'er can shed a tear of sun ' ring more. 



Such were the scenes when Popery held her reign, 
Such were the scenes that men might daily view ; 

Yet there are those who still revere her name, 
And fain would o'er our land restore her too. 

Christians, forbid it! Drive her from this land, 

Oh, listen not to her alluring tones ; 
Form for your Saviour a devoted band; 

Support your Church, your Country, and your 
Homes. 



A PEAYEE. 



Lord, when dying pains assail me, 
When my course is almost done, 

When weeping friends around bewail me, 
When the sands of life are run ; — 



POEMS. 27 

In that hour of fear and dread, 

Oh, support and comfort me, 
Be thou near my dying bed, 

Cause each doubt and care to flee. 

When this fleeting breath then fails me 

Hear my faint and feeble prayer, 
When no other help avails me, 

Show my soul that thou art there ; 
Oh, let my fleeting spirit see 

The triumph Faith may win, 
Let not the Grave have victory, 

Deprive Death of his sting. 

Then, when all on Earth is finished, 

May my soul to Heaven take wing, 
Then, with rapture undiminished, 

Ever with the angels sing 
Praise unto the glorious Lord 

Who redeemed my soul from death — 
By whom my feeble prayer was heard, 

And who received my parting breath. 



28 POEMS. 



SALVATION. 



Salvation ! 'tis a joyful word 

To every weary soul, 
It spreadeth peace where'er 'tis heard 

With faith, from pole to pole. 

Salvation ! 'tis a pearl of price, 
And one which all may buy ; 

A passport sure to Paradise 
And mansions in the sky. 

All are invited to partake, 

The Gospel calleth all, 
And all are free for Jesu's sake 

To hear that blessed call. 

Rich are the treasures of His love, 
Richer than tongue can tell ; 

Vast as the boundless realms above 
Where saints and angels dwell. 



POEMS. 29 



Lord, by thy grace each sinner lead 

Into the narrow way, 
Then shall we all be blest indeed 

In realms of endless day. 



THE DYING MOTHEB. 



Upon her couch a Mother lies, 

Holding her darling babe the while, 

Hushing with care its feeble cries, 
Gazing with rapture on each smile. 

While friends around her watched with dread 
Each fev'rish pulse and sign of pain, 

They anxious watched beside her bed, 
Alas ! must all their care be vain ? 

But even in that hour of fear 

She fancied plans of future bliss ; 

She little thought her death so near, 
That her last day of life was this. 



30 POEMS. 

A few short hours had fleeted past, 
Her soul was gone — her spirit fled, — 

The Mother now had breathed her last, 
Those friends now watched beside the dead ! 

How sad that infant's lot must be, 
No mother now its wants to tend ; 

Thus early launched on life's dark sea, 
Without its nearest, dearest friend. 

But He who ordereth all things right 
Soon took it from this world of care, — 

Took it on high to realms more bright; 
It sought and found its Mother there. 



POEMS. 31 



A PRAYER. 



Jesus, humbly at Thy feet, 

I pardon for my sins entreat ; 

Pardon for every idle word, 

Though by ear of man unheard. 

Pardon for each wandering thought 

When Thy holy house I sought ; 

Pardon for each secret sin 

In my heart that enters in. 

Melt my stubborn heart of stone, 

Make, oh make me all Thine own ! 

Till my sojourn here shall end 

Be Thou my Guardian and my Friend 

Then let my ransomed spirit free, 

Fly to Heaven, and dwell with Thee. 



32 POEMS. 



INTRODUCTION TO AN ALBUM. 



My Album it is here, you see, 

Pray help to fill it up for me. 

You '11 paint, or draw, or verses write, 

To make it pleasing to the sight ; 

And in it also let me find 

Something that's pleasing to the mind. 

Let here some verses "on a rose," 

Or " on a babe in sweet repose," — 

Verses on all occasions when 

A Poet may employ his pen. 

Let here a blooming flower be seen, 

In painted leaves of glossy green, 

And here a pretty drawing stand ; 

It must be sketched in by the hand 

Of a dear friend, and then I'm sure 

That I shall value it the more. 

Filled up like this, my little book 

Will merit an approving look 

From all, but chiefly from my friends, 

And here my introduction ends. 



POEMS. 33 



A BEGGING LETTEE. 



Dear Cornelia, 

For you I resume my poetical pen, 

Pegasus shall creep from his crib or his den^ 

I write to beseech you a favour to grant, 

And pray let me have no "I won't," or " I can't ; " 

My Album, you know, has been laid on the shelf, 

Untouch'd by any one, save by myself ; 

My sister has promis'd on one page to write : 

Miss Griffin will fill up another, some night. 

Now 7 , dearest Cornelia, you cannot refuse, 

One more of the many blank pages to use ; 

Oh, do me a drawing — -lakes, castles, and trees — 

Indeed, let the subject be just what you please. 

Do this, and I'll ever remain, as you'll guess, 

Your much obliged friend, 

E. W. S. 

P. EL 

With ifs, or with buts, you will never get through it ; 
So, pray say at once, " Dear Eliza, I'll do it. v 



BOUND BY 
WE ST LEYS* C? 

FRIAR STREET. 
LONDON. 



J 



